How she was “saved”


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The religious fanatics were on the prowl in a recently independent India… At night one of them silently crept into a Hindu village that had failed to convert to Christianity after multiple missionaries were dispatched to ‘educate’ the savages.

“Something HAS to be done. These people need to be saved. I’m spreading the word of the church”, said the man reassuringly to himself, oblivious of the repercussions his actions would have on his soul.

From hut to hut he stealthily propagated, dagger between his teeth, a rosary hanging around his waist.

“In the name of Christ as he was once sacrificed on the cross, I will save them from their earthly sins if they have not yet embraced the word of our Lord.” He chanted as he stifled sleeping women and sliced throats.

Almost all the huts in the little village were purified that night. The manic missionary had but one last little house left.

He made his way in through the kitchen. The embers from the coal stove were dying and cast long shadows on the low ceiling and mud walls.

In the next room slept the woman with the infant. He could hear her breathing deep and long.

As he had done in the last twenty houses he slid his fingers over the hilt of the dagger and tightened his grip, ready to strike.

Just as he raised the evil instrument over his head and moved across the room, the shadow of a cross flickered onto the wall.

“A sign! A sign! The Lord has blessed this house. They have been saved.” He sighed as he stared at the flickering cross.

And then the horror of the act he was about to perform hit him. He was about to take the life of a fellow purified child of God. He would have committed murder most foul and heaven’s doors would have been closed to him forever! They probably already were.

The agony of that realisation was worse than a thousand crucifixions. To be denied entry into the kingdom of heaven after all his noble acts seemed the greatest loss of all. He was about to take a life. And many had been taken already. He had one more to take….

He raised the dagger once more and plunged it deep into his own breast crying as it pierced his heart.

The embers flickered on…casting the cross shaped shadow of a humble gas lighter that innocently hung between two nails on the wall, not knowing that it had saved two lives that night.



The complaint.

Right. So sometimes I just want to tell the world to “stop fucking with me…just…stop!”

I’ve had it with the wars, terror, famine, poverty, pollution, nuclear threats, dictatorship, civil strikes, unaccountability.

I’ve also had it with nagging neighbors, the salesmen who call at odd hours, the self proclaimed do-gooders, the friends without any benefits, the therapy and the pills, the gossip, the tattle-taling, the hostility and animosity, the running around, the picking-yourself-up…

Dear soul…. The time really is NOW for a CPR, but I doubt you’ll pull through…


The Appeal

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Oh cursed redundancy that has swaddled my brain in cobwebs of repeated words and notions and feelings and ideas, fie upon you!

So fertile of mind and sound of body was I but your lethargy has gotten the better, the best and worst of me.

What have you left me with, but mediocrity!?

You’ve encased my writing hand in a gauntlet of lead, I cannot lift it, it weighs like the dead.

In retrospect though, you’re me and I am you, it’s true, but mercy! I prithee, mercy on me, I am wayward lost in this forest of pedestrian ideas and emotions.

I yearn to feel something stronger, motivating!

Break my heart again, for in that was a flood of feeling that let loose the waters of agony.

Bring me the drama in the graphite cup of a keyboard. Bring me anything, but please, take away the painless pain… take away the mundane….What I’d give to feel a little insane.

My straitjacket of words is threadbare, my lines that shackled me are rusty.

My prose needs some Viagra, my appeals, some caffeine.

So once more, I beseech you, uncompromising god of writers, take pity on me, St. Francis de Sales and give me the Midas touch of ink and paper.

Or erase what little you’ve made me hopeful for…

Help her? Or help himself?

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Image courtesy Source Link.

While they waited for their cab, he looked at her as she struggled with her designer laptop bag, her Tupperware lunch bag, and her huge pink tote with a rainbow motif. Her whole world was probably in that pink bag, he wondered. And, she – being a petite creature of fairytale folklore – could have fit in the bag herself!

“Time to be macho”, a sly smile grew on his rascally face.
“A small thing like you can’t lift ALL that. I’ll help you.” And he reached to pick up the laptop bag.
It looked great in his hands. Tan leather with brass embellishments.
Exquisite! Such a bag ought to really belong to a guy like him; suave and smooth with the ladies and living on ice and bling and parties, working just to make more money to spend.
And before he could revel in his reverie, the bag was yanked out from his hands.
“Do you really wanna help me with my stuff?” she asked, much to his arrogant surprise.
“Here! You can carry this then.”
And she pushed her pink rainbow bag into his arms, swung her laptop on her shoulder and scurried off towards the cab.

De-feminizing ray…

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Image courtesy Source Link.

I feel less than human…. All I’ve known all these years is how to be a woman. Act ‘lady-like’, be poised, be graceful… Develop feminine traits, art, charm…

I can’t tell if that’s what I really am, or if that is what I have become.

I can’t tell if that’s a good thing, or a bad thing. It has never helped nor hurt.

But now, the world is not ONLY about empowering women being trodden on….

It’s about empowering ALL the down-trodden of this planet.

Men and women alike.

So….is feeling bad for my state, typically female? Or just human? So misconstrued.
Take away that which has always been a part of me…. Femininity.

So now, I am not a woman…. I don’t know what else to be. Should I feel bad about it? Or good? Should I call myself ‘Feminist’? Or should I be made to feel bad that I think I am one?

I wish I knew what to feel… rather than feeling nothing at all. Is it this nothingness that fuels a revolution? The need for direction and belonging?

This de-glamourized asexual feeling … Is it the fourth gender? Am I a pioneer?

Or am I just circling the drain?

What do I do with my lipsticks and mascaras now? What do I do with ties and belts?

What happens when the ‘down-trodden’ men and women start gaining power that goes to their heads? Will the stronger ones force the weaker ones into submission?

Will those stronger ones be men, since they are biologically built thus?

Is it just a cycle waiting to turn again…. are we just in the middle of a feminist ice-age? Or is it like a wave that pushes forward two steps but retracts one?

Will I live long enough to see what happens in the end….if there is an end….

I wonder.

Ouch Couch.

As I stood seething in the corner, arms folded and face red, I saw her go into the bedroom….
We’d been married two years now and the fights were getting harder to patch up.
Tonight was particularly bitter… We hadn’t fought like this since one of our early dating days. But back then, things were different. I’d cool off with my friends and she’d cool off with hers… And we’d go back to being oh-so-inseparable the next day.
The thought brought a flicker of a smile to my face. Gosh, I loved her. I still loved her.
The fight was all MY fault. I knew that. The manly thing to do was to apologize. But…. the testosterone was high and my ego was higher.
Anyway, I would make it up to her in bed. She always lets me.
And then I saw something that made my heart sink.
She was walking towards the couch with a pillow and a throw rug.
It had finally happened. We were gonna be one of those couch-couples where the wife typically tells the husband ‘It’s the couch for you tonight!’. We’d seen it in cartoons and movies but we’d NEVER not spent the night together after a fight.
I suppose this meant that the love was gone…. It was really gone!
Resigned to my fate, I stepped up to the couch… I knew I deserved it… I was SUCH a colossal jerk to her tonight.
I was just about to sink into the little couch when she pushed me out of the way.
“The couch isn’t big enough for you. This is where I sleep tonight.” With that, she dropped into the worn in upholstery and turned away from me.
And at that moment, my heart broke ever so silently.

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Image courtesy Source Link.

The peach schnapps song.

A lot of you have heard the ‘Cuppy Cake’ song…. (In case you haven’t, youtube it.) It’s this ‘Sweet-nothings’ song sung by a wee li’ll kid that just makes you wanna cry of cuteness overkill… Naturally, it was a bit too sweet for me…. So I decided to try my hand at spoofing….
Enough talk! Here goes… (P.S. Sing to the tune of Cuppy Cake Song.)

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Image courtesy Source Link.

“You’re my Honey mead, Shandy float,
Sparkling Champagne,
Lucy in the sky…

You’re my Cognac, Grey Goose,
Schweppes Tonic & Gin,
An Apple Martini Dry…

And I love you so,
And I want you to know,
That I’ll always be right here…

And I love to pour,
These drinks for you,
And make your vision blur!”